I laughed.
Actually laughed.
It surprised both of us.
“Dorothy. Can I ask about your ex-husband?”
She picked her fork back up.
“Harold. Forty-one years. Ran a car dealership. Ran it into the ground, as it turned out, and put the debts in my name while he was doing it.”
“I found out at sixty-eight. In a bank lobby. From a teller who was kind enough to whisper.”
“Samuel found the money. Seven years of it. Harold’s in a one-bedroom in Dayton now.”
“I kept the house.”
“That’s why you hired someone with a record.”
“I hired someone who answered ‘better than I cook’ when I asked about books.”
“The record told me you’d been somewhere. The answer told me you’d come back.”
After dinner, I went to my room and read Marjorie’s letter.
It was addressed to Brian.
It was dated two weeks before she d*ed.
I read the first paragraph.
